Sonnet LVII. Thy beauty is the Sun, which guides my day

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THY beauty is the Sun, which guides my day,

And with his beams, to my world’s life gives light;

With whose sweet favour, all my fancies play,

And as birds singing, still enchant my sight.

But when I seek to get my love’s chief pleasure,

Her frowns are like the night led by the Lamp

Of PHŒBE’s chaste desires; whilst, without leisure,

Graces like Stars, through all her face encamp.

Then all my Fancy’s birds lie whisht, for fear;

Soon as her frowns procure their shady sorrow:

Saving my heart, which secret shot doth bear,

And nature from the nightingale doth borrow;

Which from laments, because he will not rest,

Hath love’s thorn-prickle pointed at his breast.